One of my sub-roles as concierge/fluffer/ninja/warrior princess/terrorist/fluffer includes editing.
Which is always done before and after everyone else’s normal work hours.
Yesterday I got something done in two hours. Which, considering that prose does not arrive as perfectly as anyone might believe, IS A RECORD, PEOPLE.
And instead of, “Oh Goddess. We bow before your brilliance,” it was more, “Yeah that shouldn’t take that long.”
Instead of answering, I consulted a fellow wounded warrior.
Goddess: How would you spell/capitalize the sound that emanates from your body if someone asks you “Why does it take so long to edit XX?”
Pal: It would be one of those symbols you can’t pronounce, like when Prince changed his name.
Goddess: She wore a Raspberry Beret — and pulled it down over her face and tied it at the neck till she deprived herself of oxygen.
Pal: I think XX does that when s/he sits down to write.